


Anarchic Aphrodite

by zipadeea



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Kings Rising, an ode to character development, hurt damen, laurent is so hard to write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 08:32:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16807129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zipadeea/pseuds/zipadeea
Summary: "Because Damianos of Akielos dying as Laurent felt sorry for him—That was unacceptable."***Missing scenes from Captive Prince and Kings Rising. Because Damen can be an unreliable narrator, and Laurent was there for it all.





	Anarchic Aphrodite

**Author's Note:**

> Oh these books. Such great characters. Laurent is so sweet and twisted and difficult to write. He's much smarter and cleverer than I've added to this story, but obviously you already know that. I just love character development, and I love how much these idiot kings love each other. 
> 
> And Damen just goes and glosses over every time he gets hurt like "welp, i lived" but i'm pretty sure he almost dies a whole lot. SO here is my story about it.
> 
> For the title, idk man i read it somewhere and saw it came from a poem. I just think out of context, and probably in context too, but i didn't read the poem that closely, it sounds kind of lyrical, and it's basically a 'fuck the laws and the government and borders, we're passionately in love' and if that isn't Laurent and Damen, idk what is.

Anarchic Aphrodite 

_“Sad is Eros, builder of cities,_

_And weeping anarchic Aphrodite.”_

-W.H. Auden (In Memory of Sigmund Freud) 

000 

“Will he live?” Laurent asked snidely, unable and unwilling to keep the derision out of his voice. 

Paschal frowned. “I can make no promises at the moment, Your Highness.” 

Laurent furrowed his brow and stared blankly at the physician. “You cannot be serious. Surely--,” 

“He has a bad fever, Highness. One of the welts has become infected. He won’t eat or drink and is dangerously dehydrated as a result.” 

Even completely incapacitated, Damianos of Akielos found a way to ruin everything. 

“That is unacceptable, Paschal. You must heal him.” 

“I cannot--,” 

“It is your _job_ \--,” 

“Even I cannot force life back into a person who does not wish to live.” 

Paschal said it coolly, his eyes like flint as he stared Laurent down. 

Laurent snorted. “You expect me to believe that stupidly stubborn and willful fool cannot find the _will_ to live?” 

The flint left Paschal’s eyes. He sighed. 

“I expect you to understand that he is very ill, Your Highness, and in a great deal of pain. He is in a strange place with no friends, no one who truly cares. I would imagine he is feeling rather hopeless. And I’ve found that hope is rather vital when it comes to matters of life and death.” 

Laurent would go to hell willingly before _ever_ allowing himself to feel an ounce of sympathy for his brother’s murderer. He snorted again. 

“Stop telling tales, Paschal. Next you shall have me kissing him, to wake him up and break the evil witch’s curse.” 

“Your Highness--,” 

“Let me see him.” 

Paschal swallowed thickly. “I do not think that is wise.” 

“Why?” 

“I believe you will distress him.” 

Laurent pushed passed Paschal and burst through the slave’s door. 

Damianos was lying on a pallet on his stomach, sweat-soaked silks and pillows surrounding him. A thin sheet covered him to his waist, and a damp cloth lay across his overheated neck. His dark hair was curlier than usual, laying in flat ringlets over his forehead and one of his closed eyes, as though he couldn’t be bothered to brush it away. 

His back, once a tanned and muscled work of art, was bloody and ragged and horrible, and made even Laurent wince to look upon. 

“Please, Your Highness,” Paschal whispered next to him. “If you wish him to live, let him sleep. Please, let him be. Let him sleep.” 

Laurent ignored Paschal; instead he sat himself on the pallet, next to the dark, curly head. 

Damianos did not stir at the movement, not a flinch or a whimper, and that spoke more to the seriousness of his condition than anything Paschal had already told him. Laurent could feel the stifling heat rising off the slave’s body in the inches between them. Damianos’ breathing was laborious and short. 

He could die. 

Laurent paused for a moment, attempting to evaluate how he truly felt about that outcome. There would certainly be hell to pay from his uncle—but then, when was life with his uncle not a practice of survival in the viper’s den, a never-ending maze through the icy pits of hell? 

Laurent had wanted the head of Prince Damianos of Akielos on a pike since the moment Auguste’s dead body had been brought to him. He had dreamed of gutting the man himself, had trained to slip his sword through his ribs, just as Damianos did to his beloved brother all those years ago. 

This was not the ending Laurent dreamed of, but it should be acceptable. Damianos, the prince of a country who revered death in the battlefield, who worshiped its heroes and saw its royalty as blessed by their ridiculous gods, would die a slave. A slave, alone and friendless in a hostile country, burned with fever from the infected welts of a flogging. The Prince of Akielos was laid lower than anyone ever could have imagined. 

It _should_ be acceptable. 

Unthinkingly, Laurent reached up his hand and brushed the curls away from Damianos’ eye, back behind his ear. The man let out a soft sigh, and he leaned into the gentle touch. 

Laurent pulled back his hand as though it burned. He glared down at his slave, this oaf of a man who dared surprise him even in unconsciousness. He glared down at the face carved from marble, red and dry from fever, finally uncovered, unhidden from the curls and realized-- 

Damianos was crying. 

They were soft, silent tears, flowing ceaselessly down his cheeks. The horrible, quiet tears, not born of physical pain, but of a grief, a hopelessness so strong and profound no noise or words could ever do it justice. 

Laurent knew them well. 

And for one moment, Laurent allowed himself to pretend. He imagined the man before him was not his worst enemy, but just a stranger. A beautiful stranger, ill and hurt, who had, in the span of a day, lost his father and brother, his home and his friends, the happy carefree life he had once enjoyed. 

For a moment, Laurent of Vere allowed himself to empathize. And when that inevitably grew too painful, he leaned forward and whispered in the man’s ear: 

“You are not allowed to die. Not today. Not like this. This is not how the story ends.” 

Because Damianos of Akielos dying as Laurent felt _sorry_ for him-- 

That was unacceptable. 

000 

“Will he live?” Laurent rasped out, both hands clutched around one of Damen’s. He tried to look up at Paschal, but found it impossible to tear his eyes from the rise and fall of Damen’s chest. 

“I can make no promises at the moment, Your Highness,” Paschal said softly. “The dagger struck no vital organs, but the king has lost much blood. And we must be wary of infection. Only time can tell.” 

Laurent bit his lip, his hand gripping Damen’s even more tightly. Damen was naked, sheet pulled up to his waist, his abdomen covered in thick white bandages that were already beginning to stain red. 

“He must live,” Laurent whispered. “Paschal, he must.” Because Uncle was dead. Kastor was dead. The kingdoms were theirs, Akielos had been secured, the war was finally, _finally_ over-- 

Damen just had to wake up and see it. 

“Your Highness, when did you last sleep?” Laurent did not deign the question with a response, sitting as he was, pale and drawn, still wearing the filthy chiton he had first put on three days ago. 

“You need to sleep, Laurent.” Laurent could have the physician punished for his insolence, his presumption. 

“I am not leaving.” 

“I did not say you should.” 

Wordlessly, Laurent rose and walked around to the other side of the large bed. He did not bother with the covers, simply kicking off his sandals and crawling over, settling himself as close to Damen as he dared before grabbing the hand next to him with one his own. 

With his other hand, Laurent reached up, brushing the stray curls off Damen’s forehead, out of his eyes, before kissing the skin there softly, resting his cheek after to feel for heat. 

“No fever yet?” Paschal asked quietly. Laurent had forgotten his presence for a moment. 

“No.” 

“Go to sleep, Your Highness. I promise to wake you if anything changes.” Paschal said, crossing the room to retrieve his bag of supplies. 

Laurent laid his head down on one of the spare pillows in the bed, hand still grasping Damen’s. He pressed a kiss to the hand, then tilted his head up to whisper in the king’s ear: 

“You are not allowed to die. Not today. Not like this. This is not how our story ends.” 

Because Damianos of Akielos dying after making Laurent fall in _love_ with him-- 

That was unacceptable. 

000 


End file.
